


Abditory

by thetimemoves (WriteOut)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Confessions, Friendship, Hiding, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 07:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13071594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteOut/pseuds/thetimemoves
Summary: Abditory (n). A safe repository for valuables; a hiding place (literal and figurative).Or, five times Sherlock hid and one time he was found.





	Abditory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadowed_sunsets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowed_sunsets/gifts).



> Happy Holmestice, shadowed_sunsets/pip_pn_frodo! I had great fun writing this story for you.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Splix for being an amazing beta and sounding board. You're the best! And to magnetic_pole, who challenged me to do this in the first place- we did it! Thank you!

1

“Ready or not, here I come!”

Sherlock grimaced at his sister’s voice. Eurus was still down in the kitchen, but Sherlock knew he didn’t have much time. He stood on the first-floor landing and tilted his head toward the stairs. Mummy and Daddy were in the living room, their voices low and serious. He could hear the pop and hiss of logs as they crackled in the ancient fireplace and the faint tinkle of ice against glass as his parents began their evening ritual of drinks before dinner.

It was Victor he should have been hiding from, Victor who was meant to spend the night, but who was home sick with a fever. Yellowbeard would have to do without his Redbeard, at least for the weekend.

Sherlock sulked when Mummy called him into the living room to tell him Victor would not be spending the night. Daddy was in his chair with the paper, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. Eurus was on the floor in front of the fireplace, crayons and coloring books scattered about her. She watched Sherlock with her big eyes and unsmiling mouth. He looked away.

Mummy smoothed his curls down, cupped his chin with a cool hand, and told him he could play with his sister instead. He frowned harder and scuffed his feet against the worn rug. Daddy made sympathetic noises that did little to placate Sherlock. Eurus stood up and walked over to Sherlock, taking his hand in hers. She still wasn’t smiling, and she didn’t say a word. Sherlock wanted to say no. He didn’t like playing with Eurus, didn’t like her sort of games. She wasn’t fun. She pinched. She _hurt._

Daddy looked at Sherlock, really looked at him, and said he could sit with them and read a book if he so chose. There was no resisting Mummy once she was decided on something, however; she suggested hide-and-seek and waved them off, brooking no refusal. As Eurus led Sherlock out of the room, he looked back at Daddy with a silent plea in his eyes. Daddy gave him a nod and an encouraging smile, but said nothing more.

As Sherlock stood on the landing, unsure of where to hide, he thought of Mycroft. He wished for his brother. Mycroft had stayed behind at school for the weekend. Better for studying, he told his parents, especially with two little pirates running rampant and looking for willing captives. He would have known what to do. Mycroft didn’t like to play Eurus’s games either.

Mycroft’s room was off-limits to Sherlock when he wasn’t home, but Sherlock didn’t think his brother would mind this time. Even Eurus, who seemed to know no boundaries, was wary of Mycroft and would likely not head for his bedroom first.

He walked softly down the hall and cracked open the bedroom door. The room was cold and smelled of old books and ink, a bit musty but comforting. Like Mycroft himself. He glanced at the wardrobe but moved to the end of the room and eased himself between the bed and wall.

He sat and reveled in the quiet until a sudden crack startled him. He looked up, thinking it was his sister, but it was just the creaking and groaning of Musgrave Hall as it settled once again. He longed for the warmth of the fire, the soothing smell of his father’s aftershave.

“I that am lost, oh who will find me…” Eurus’s high, sweet voice carried down the long hallway. She was getting closer.

Sherlock shivered. He wrapped his arms around himself tighter and waited.

 

2

John giggled. Again. The third time in the last 30 minutes, not that Sherlock was counting. Was he counting giggles? Why was he counting John’s giggles? He shook off that thought and glanced over at John, who was crouched alongside him behind the large sofa in the drafty flat. Sherlock’s idea, although he was starting to regret the tight squeeze. The flat wasn’t large and it was nearly empty, squatters having run off with most of the furnishings. This was the only spot that would hide them both well enough, even if it was murder on the knees. John caught Sherlock’s raised eyebrow and grinned sheepishly.

“Sorry, sorry. I feel ridiculous, Sherlock. It’s just—I played these games when I was a kid and here I am, hiding behind a couch for real.” John flexed his bad shoulder as best he could in the small space and grimaced. “Tell me again what we’re doing in this manky flat. It smells, it’s freezing, and I’m not sure I can sit like this for much longer.”

“As I’ve already explained, John, Sanderson told my contact that the exchange would be made this morning. Thomaston is to leave the package here. The Yard can’t get involved until there’s more evidence. This is our best chance.”

“Yes, I get that part but what I don’t understand is how you know it’s going to happen here. Sanderson’s gang has been working South Croydon, not Highgate.“

“It’s obvious, John. Even an idiot can put the connections together.” He winked to soften his words.

John shook his head and tried not to laugh again. “Git. Not everyone can see ten steps ahead like you can.”

They were quiet for a time. Sherlock once again contemplated his great good fortune in meeting John Watson. Most people bolted the scene when left alone with him for more than five minutes, but here was John, still living at Baker Street five weeks later and by all appearances quite pleased about it. They were still getting used to one another, to sharing a home and now, apparently, the Work, but they managed to slot themselves into each other’s lives without nearly as much effort as Sherlock expected. He didn’t want to think about why it was so easy for him to make room for John Watson when he usually held the rest of the world at bay.

Sherlock could feel John looking him in expectation, waiting once again for Sherlock’s rapid-fire stream of deductions that had led them to this place. He didn’t keep John waiting for long.

“That’s amazing.” John murmured, when Sherlock stopped to take a breath. “Absolutely brilliant.”

Sherlock bit his lip to keep from smiling. He didn’t think he was going to tire of John’s compliments any time soon, if ever. He cleared his throat. “Well, if you think—”

They froze at the sound of footsteps in the hall. 

“Very good. He’s by himself. Ready, John?” Sherlock whispered. 

“Of course, Sherlock,” John whispered back.

They tensed up at the jingle of a key in a lock, their eyes bright with anticipation. The door opened.

 

3

Molly stood in her doorway and stared at Sherlock, her eyes wide with shock.

“Hello, Molly,” said Sherlock. “Long time no see.” He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels.

“Sherlock?” She leaned out the door and looked at the cab that was pulling away from the sidewalk. “I don’t understand. It’s been over a year. There’s been nothing from Mycroft in ages. Does he know you’re here?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Sherlock threw his arms out. “I’m back! Got a flannel I can borrow?” 

“What do you mean, you’re back? How? And what happened to your face?” She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him inside.

Sherlock didn’t respond but walked around her into the warm kitchen. The dried blood on his face itched. He didn’t think he could handle it a moment longer, any of it. He needed that flannel. He needed some air. He needed a do-over. He started pacing frantically, looking for something to clean his face.

Molly followed him into the kitchen. “Sherlock, stop. Calm down...”

She pulled a flannel from a drawer and ran it under hot water. She squeezed it out, moved over to the dining room table, and motioned to a chair.

“Come here,” she said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” When he sat down, she tilted his head back with a soft hand and began to gently wipe his face. “Who did this to you?”

Sherlock’s smile was bitter. “John Watson wasn’t as happy to see me as I thought.”

“John? How—oh, Sherlock. You didn’t just spring it on him, did you?”

“How else was I supposed to do it? Besides, he’s apparently been preoccupied. I interrupted his marriage proposal to Mary.” He looked away. “Well, the night’s still young. I’m sure he’ll get on with it.”

Molly sighed and shook her head. “You’ve been a gone a long time, Sherlock. A lot has happened.” She prodded his nose gingerly, feeling for a break. “You’ll sort things out with John. He just needs time. He won’t be the only one, you know. Coming back is going to shock everyone. You need to prepare yourself for that.”

She cleaned the last of the blood off his chin and rested her hand on his face. Sherlock covered it with his for just a moment. 

“Thank you, Molly. You’ve once again shown me an incredible kindness. I want you to know I couldn’t have done any of this without your help.”

“Of course, Sherlock. I would do—” She cut herself off and looked down at the bloodied flannel in her hands. Her eyes were watery. “Tea. Tea would be good. I’ll make you a cup of tea, okay? And then you can tell me why it’s safe for you to return.”

Suddenly it was all too much for Sherlock. The reality of being back and seeing the fallout of his actions threatened to overwhelm him.

“Sorry… I—sorry.” His voice was thick. “Need the loo.” He stood up on shaky legs and walked down the hall into the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the tub and took several deep, gulping breaths.

There was a soft knock on the door. Sherlock ignored it. He put his head in his hands and refused to cry.

 

4

“Sherlock, come on. I could really use your help on this,” Lestrade begged.

Sherlock wasn’t moved. "Sorry, Graham,” he finally said, the first words he’d uttered since Lestrade barged into Baker Street fifteen minutes ago. “Mind palace needs tending to. Important work, you know.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. Or so Sherlock assumed, as he didn’t bother to open his own. He had been slouched somewhat upright on the couch trying to remember the last time he’d taken a shower when he heard Lestrade coming up the stairs, but immediately lay down and steeled himself against the pleas he knew were forthcoming.

“Ears, Sherlock. Two ears. Mailed in a cardboard box filled with salt.” His voice rose with each word. “It’s got to be at least a six, right? You love the ones with the bits!”

Lestrade was right, of course. Sherlock did love the ones with the bits. He itched with temptation. It was a quiet morning at Baker Street, just another in a long string of quiet, boring days. A case would do him good. John would like the ears too, wouldn’t he? They would make a good story for his blog. Oh. But John wasn’t there to hear about the ears, to needle Sherlock (unnecessarily) into taking the case. It had been two weeks since the wedding. John’s wedding. John was gone now, off on his sex holiday with Mary. And once he was back? Well, Sherlock knew what would happen. They’d continue to drift apart. John had a wife now, and soon there would be a child. John’s priorities had shifted while Sherlock was Away, something Sherlock was not sure he’d ever get used to. He was tired and depressed, uninterested in dealing with his new reality.

Lestrade threw down his ace card. “The ears don’t match.”

Sherlock willed himself not to react. _Mismatched_ ears. Dammit, Lestrade was good.

“Listen, I know you miss John. I know things are different now, but you are still a consulting detective, are you not?” Lestrade sighed.

Sherlock was unmoving. He could feel waves of frustration flow from Lestrade.

“Sherlock,” he began again, gentling his voice. “You need to get out. This isn’t healthy. When was the last time you—”

Lestrade’s phone suddenly rang out, to Sherlock’s immense relief.

Lestrade sighed and Sherlock heard him turn and walk out the door. Sherlock cracked an eye open, certain that Lestrade would be too focused on his call to notice, and saw him standing on at the top of the stairs, slightly hunched over.

“Mycroft. Yes, I’m here. No, nothing… of course I told him about the ears. Not a sound.”

Mycroft. Sherlock scoffed silently. His brother needed to mind his own business. He needed to leave Lestrade out of it and leave Sherlock alone.

Lestrade paced on the small landing and ran a hand through his already-mussed hair. “He’s in his mind palace or something. Won’t look at me or take anything seriously. I know you wanted me to give him a case, but this is this third one he’s refused in two weeks.”

He started down the stairs, muttered something to Mycroft that Sherlock couldn’t quite make out and ended the call. Sherlock listened as Lestrade said a somewhat subdued goodbye to Mrs Hudson.

He closed his eyes again. He thought of John and didn’t move for a long time.

 

5

Sherlock stood on Mycroft’s doorstep and wondered how he’d found himself there. He was tired from exploring London all day, a good kind of tired that he hadn’t felt in so long. Walking London with no purpose in mind was his way of recharging, of reconnecting with both his beloved city and himself. As was usual when he was this sort of introspective mood, he let his instincts guide him.

Evidently, recent events were on his mind, even if a part of Sherlock wanted to forget _again_ everything about Musgrave Hall, Victor Trevor, and Eurus Holmes. He told himself he was looking for the reliable comfort of arguing with his brother. Mycroft was always good for a ridiculous squabble that worked to distract them both from more serious matters.

But as he stood at Mycroft’s back door, Sherlock found he didn’t have the heart to nitpick and tear apart everything his brother did or said. Not right then. He was still reeling from the most open display of Mycroft’s vulnerabilities he’d witnessed since their childhood. Or, if he was to be honest with himself, since his last serious stint in rehab. It unsettled him, this disinclination to needle and poke and antagonize his brother for every perceived slight and flaw. Their wounds were both too deep.

Sherlock wanted answers. He wanted to understand his brother’s actions. He wanted to know why their parents never said a word. He and Mycroft had much to talk about. But not yet. Not tonight.

He stepped off the porch and into the shadows. Sherlock listened to his brother open the door and call his name. He did not answer.

 

+1

“Ready or not, here we come!”

Sherlock smiled at the happiness in John’s voice. _We._ John and Rosie were a matched set these days, one rarely without the other. Sherlock knew that John still hadn’t forgiven himself for what he perceived to be his neglect of Rosie after Mary’s murder. He likely never would, for all that Sherlock had tried to convince him otherwise. John was barely functional during those dark days, lost in a fog of grief and anger and confusion. The events at Sherrinford had finally shaken something loose in him though and ever since, John had made it a priority to be a solid and loving presence for his Rosie.

Rebuilding 221b together, and at the same time rebuilding their relationship, had not been easy. John losing Sherlock, losing Mary, losing himself. Sherlock once again taking himself to the edge, but barely coming back this time. All had taken their toll. Replacing the wallpaper and curtains proved much simpler than shoring back up the trust and camaraderie that had never truly disappeared despite everything. But Baker Street was back in order and slowly, Sherlock and John were finding their footing once more. It was hard work, emotionally demanding of two men who never were inclined to express themselves openly, but they were dedicated to the effort and to each other.

Sherlock made it clear from the start that John and Rosie would always have a home with him in Baker Street. He wasn’t subtle about it, but time and experience had taught him patience and eventually it paid off. Long talks were had and ground rules—about body parts and chemicals in particular—were laid, but John and Rosie were now settled at Baker Street, where they belonged.

***

It had been a good day. Earlier, John had made the thing with peas for lunch and invited Mrs Hudson to join them. Sherlock reveled in the company and cheerfully picked up every pea that Rosie had refused to eat and instead tossed over the side of her chair. After Rosie’s nap, from which she woke up a bit grumpy, it was decided a walk would do them good. They headed to St James Park, all three of them bundled up against the bitter cold. Rosie threw corn and oats at the ducks while Sherlock and John drank hot chocolates and talked about their latest case. It had been a complicated one and John mentioned writing it up for his blog, something he hadn’t done in a very long time. He asked Sherlock questions and threw in the occasional “brilliant!” and “you’re amazing!” Sherlock reveled in his adulation, as always.

As they watched Rosie screech at the ducks, Sherlock felt a sense of rightness, of completion, settle over him so suddenly that he stopped talking mid-sentence. He was happy, he realized. Truly, deeply happy and for once in his life, he didn’t expect it to all disappear by machinations of his own or others’ doings. His eyes welled up. Christ, Mycroft would have a field day with all of this sentiment. To be fair to his brother though, these days he’d probably encourage it.

“Sherlock?” John looked at him, his brow furrowed. “You okay?”

Sherlock blinked rapidly for a few moments as he pulled himself together and said, “Yes, I think I am.” 

He glanced down at Rosie and watched her tip the rest of the bag of corn out. “I’m sorry, what was I saying again?”

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” John nudged his shoulder against Sherlock’s.

“Just, this. Us. Today. It’s been a good day, hasn’t it?” He took a last swallow of his drink.

John’s face softened. “Yeah, it has. It’s all been good lately, Sherlock.” He put his hand on Sherlock’s arm. “I wanted to let you know that I’ve—”

Whatever John had been about to say was drowned out by a particularly loud quack. They both jumped.

“That one is getting a little too close.” John made a face and shooed the duck away. “She’s out of treats and it looks like it’s going to snow anyway. What do you say we get our girl home and warmed up, okay?” 

_Our_ girl. Sherlock didn’t bother to fight the huge grin he knew would give him a dozen chins. “Of course, John, lead the way.”

John was right, as he sometimes was, and it started to snow just as they reached Baker Street. 

After a fire was lit and a nappy was changed, Sherlock and John sat in their chairs with Rosie on the floor between them, blocks and picture books scattered around her. John leaned over suddenly and lifted her up. She squealed in delight as John moved over to the fireplace, bobbing her up and down. 

“Rosie girl, shall we play hide-and-seek with Sherlock? We can’t have him getting bored on us now, can we?” John hoisted Rosie higher on his hip and planted a kiss on her forehead, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s.

“Hide-and-seek, John? Really? I’ve not played that in 30 years.”

“Then it’s time we taught Rosie, don’t you think? She looks game, don’t you, sweetheart?” 

Sherlock blushed. John was still looking at him, not Rosie.

“Count to ten, John. I won’t need more time than that. And go face the corner. No cheating.” 

Sherlock stood up and waited for John to move into the corner. Once John turned around and started to count, Sherlock slipped down the hall into his own bedroom. He sat down on the floor between the wall and the bed and crossed his legs. He waited, but not for long. 

“Ready or not, here we come!”

Unsurprisingly, it took John and a chatty Rosie approximately 10 seconds to find him. Sherlock pretended to pout.

“Look, Rosie! Look who we found!” John laughed at the expression on Sherlock’s face.

Rosie continued to babble away, her outstretched hands reaching for her Sherlock. John obliged and passed her down to him. Sherlock settled the squirming girl in his lap and wrapped an arm around her.

John stared at the two of them for a moment, the look on his face unreadable, and then knelt in front of Sherlock. His knees popped as he settled down. 

“Christ, we’re getting old, aren’t we?” Amusement colored his voice. 

“Speak for yourself, old man.“ Sherlock brushed his nose against Rosie’s downy curls as she snuggled in closer. “I’m still in the prime of my life.”

“Git. Remind me of that when I have to help you up off the floor.” John shuffled closer. He put his hands on Sherlock’s thighs and gently squeezed. 

“Sherlock, tell me again. Tell me again how happy you are.”

Sherlock’s heart beat faster. Oh god. “I’m happy, John. I am. You and Rosie, you both make me happy. You always have.” 

“I am too, you know. Happy. I didn’t think I would be again, after everything. I was so angry, Sherlock. So, so angry.” He swallowed hard. “I was lost for a long time. Still, you didn’t give up. You kept your vow. And you were lost too, you were. But now…” 

John moved his hand up to cup the back of Sherlock’s head. He gently pulled it towards his own and rested their foreheads together.

“Found you.”


End file.
